


Moonrise

by command_query



Category: Strange Magic (2015)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-08
Updated: 2016-06-02
Packaged: 2018-05-18 23:44:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5947789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/command_query/pseuds/command_query
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the king of the Fae dies suddenly, foul play is suspected. In the midst of a political uproar Princess Marianne struggles to control her court, her temper, her Talent, and her sudden inexplicable attraction to a dark visiting dignitary.<br/>The death of her father has left her shocked, heart broken and unprepared for what lies ahead. There are whispers of rebellion on the horizon, and there may just be fire burning merrily away beneath all this smoke.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Darkness had stolen upon them more quickly that night than others previously. Perhaps that should have been their warning. In the course of a single night, the lives of all the Summer Fae would change.

It was in the wee hours of the night, when the moon had all but gone and the false pre dawn light had washed over the land that the news came. Marianne had been sleeping. She would never forgive herself that. The maid burst through her door without so much as knocking. She was frantic.

“My Lady!” She gasped, “Your father! You must come quickly!” She wrung her hands before herself nervously, her eyes wide with fright.

Marianne burst from the bed clumsily, a brief flap of her wings vaulting her to her feet. She landed with a stumble, face pale and eyes wild. “What?!” Still half asleep and standing on sheer adrenaline, she couldn’t seem to say more. But the maid needed no further prompting, she bolted from the room, wings fluttering through the palace and made for the royal receiving chambers.

The rooms were bustling with fae, but when they saw who the maid had brought they stepped aside or swung neatly out of the way. There, in his cozy arm chair where he often entertained friends and family, slumped the king. A book had fallen to the floor. His hands were limp. His chest did not rise.

Neither did hers.

Marianne dropped to her knees, a hand pressed gently against her father’s face.  
“Papa..?” She whispered, “Papa please…” But old Dagda did not move. He was cold and stiff beneath her fingers.

A single shriek broke the shocked silence of the night. Marianne half rose, turning to face the maker of that unearthly sound. Her sister had come.

_____________

It was only when Dawn had been lead screaming from the room that Marianne finally managed to drag herself away from the body of her father. She stood shakily, drained and exhausted, clutching the cold hand of the man who had raised her. The hand itself seemed smaller somehow, without life coursing through it; she could not convince her own to let go of it until she had risen fully to her feet and contemplated it for a moment. Her chest ached, as did her head. She breathed deeply for a moment, eyes closed and burning, struggling to be brave, to be strong. To be the woman her father had always wanted her to be. She was not ready, but then, she did not think she ever would be. 

When she turned, every fairy dropped to one knee. 

“The king is dead,” intoned the stern faced manservant who had been closest to her father. “Long live the queen.”

Marianne did not cry.


	2. Chapter 2

Bog was coaxing a fern to unfurl when the news came to him. This fern was particularly stubborn, to be expected of a plant grown by an equally stubborn man. Bog had reached within himself to the place at the base of his spine where green fire kept him warm in even the coldest winters. A gentle mental nudge had the fire spreading down his arm and lighting up the room he had sequestered himself off in. He often came here to think, to escape his duties as king. He worked mindlessly here, encouraging plants to grow in dark places where they would not normally. There were trees lining the walls, tiny, vibrant things in all stages of season, from budding spring aspens to beautiful summer oaks and graceful fall willows to gorgeous winter pines, all perfect miniatures and perfectly content to be where they were. Bog loved them like children, the way one loves family, entirely and protectively and maybe just a little bit frustratedly. 

It is very hard, you see, to explain to an oak that it cannot be as tall as it would like to become, nor as wide as it thinks it should grow, especially one that wishes to do so without leaving the person who has cared for it. As for the pine, it had twisted itself into a neat little curve a long time ago, and still refused to return to a straight stand, bowing in on itself further when Bog was in a foul mood. Bog had put that argument on hold for now. He secretly thought of that one like his mother. Like a dog with a bone.

The room was lined with all manner of flora, from bioluminescent mosses to living sculptures of vines, his prized miniature forest sitting steadily side by side with mint and fennel, tiny herbs nestled among the larger pots. Every plant one could imagine Bog had crafted and grown, cherished, with a single notable exception. Not a single flower thrived in a room that teemed with life. Exactly how he preferred it. A noise broke his calm reverie. 

Thang had rolled through the door of the little greenhouse, toppling forward as though he had been pushed from behind. Bog very carefully did not turn around as he silently ordered the fire of his Talent to return to it's home in his body. 

"S-sire!" Thang croaked, leaping to his feet. "News from the mushrooms, the feels king has fried!"

"No, you ingrate! The feared king has flied!" Came the harsh whisper from outside the door. A pair of yellow eyes peered in and locked on Thang, annoyed.  
Bog took a steadying breath, asking the gods for patience that he knew would never come, smacked Thang atop the head with his fist as he passed and swatted Stuff with the crook of his staff on his way out. He went to hear the news himself.

The Fields king had died.

It had been three days according to the mushrooms. The envoy bearing the coronation invitation would arrive on the eighth day, as per custom. Seven days of high mourning were allotted to royalty, though old Dagda had been a beloved ruler and would be mourned for the better part of the next century. There was little time to prepare, but Bog set to work immediately. The treaties the Forest had held with the Fields had died when the old king did, and Bog was determined to ensure the the tenuous peace remained. He called on his advisors, the trusted old generals that had served him for centuries, and one scribe who could- hopefully- listen well enough to note down the important details of the treaty they would eventually hash out with their neighbors. On the fourth day after the death of the King, Bog set about creating a suitable gift for the new ruler in the next kingdom. A lass, if he recalled properly. She had been wild eyed and curious, a tiny slip of a thing, determined to speak her mind and learn everything she could. He had been impressed with her, and he rather hoped she had grown to be as promising as she had seemed at such a young age. 

A tree would do, not one of his lovelies but perhaps he could craft a suitable peace offering in three days? He disappeared into his work shop, Griselda appointed castle regent until his task was complete.

An oak, he thought, for strength, and endurance. With sprigs of sage and rue around the bottom in waves flowing out from the trunk. Yes, it would be perfect. Strength, wisdom, and clear vision, good things to wish upon the girl child who now held half the Summer Court in her grasp. A red poppy seed was placed in the large shallow bowl as well. A gift he could not begrudge the child. He remembered all too well his own father's passing. Old Dagda himself had come and gifted the new Bog King with a small delicate poppy. Bog had kept that single flower alive for the last two centuries with gentle care. It lived out it's life on the lip of Griselda's window, a brilliant vermillion splash of light that she treasured.

On the fifth day the oak had grown tall and strong. Bog began on the sage next.

On the sixth day, gentle rings of sage and rue surrounded the young oak.

On the seventh and final day, the task was complete.

Bog contemplated his old passed friend that evening. Dagda had been wasting away little by little in the century since his consort had died, and Bog felt some measure of joy that the man might be reunited with the Queen who had left them all behind to walk to Meadows. 

On the eighth day, the envoy arrived. Bog sent the small elf back to the Fields with a bracelet of mistletoe.

On the ninth day, Bog prepared to leave. He took with him only two guards, and two of his generals. The rest of his council would sit regent until his return. He set his mother to harassing them, and felt content in his leaving.

On the tenth day, Bog left behind the dark Forest and stepped in to the sunlit world beyond.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M SO SORRY I HAVEN'T UPDATED. Right after I posted chapter 2 I moved a state over and haven't had access to a computer. In fact, I typed all of this one on my phone, plz don't judge me if the spelling is awful. I tried, honest.

Dawn tipped a pointy ear to the wall to indicate she was Listening and her sister ceased speaking immediately. 

"Dawn?" She whispered quietly. Her sister continued to stare, vacant eyed at the wall, hearing whatever it was Marianne could not. The Queen-to-be sat back and waited, chewing tastelessly on a pastry. Dawn would come back soon enough. Two pastries later Dawn snapped back to reality. She looked almost excited- certainly more so than she had been for anything in the last few days. Marianne blinked at her questioningly. 

"The Dark court have been spotted." She answered promptly, never one to keep gossip waiting. "The maids are coming for us now." With that, she wiped her hands on a napkin and patted gently at Marianne's hair over the table.

Marianne allowed her a brief, sisterly moment before she heaved a sigh and stood, Dawn rising to stand primly beside her. "Alright," she murmured under her breath, "let's get this over with." Dawn gave a ghost of a smile in response.   
........

 

Bog was not entirely sure what he expected when he met the Royal family, but these grim eyed girls were not it. 

Princess Dawn was a reed thin slip of a child, even for a fair fae. She was light in coloring and complexion and altogether more soft looking than the look in her eyes portrayed. 

Her sister, the soon to be queen Marianne was her opposite in almost every way. Though not truly tall by her people's standard, she had a way of standing that commanded attention. Her eyes were piercing and vivid: rings of brown warring with rings of green. She wore armor, he noted, and a sword hung at her waist, the hilt serviceable and the sheath unadorned. She was dark, everything about her was in fact, from her earth brown hair to her sun kissed skin, she looked solid in a way he hadn't expected. 

"Your Majesty." Her voice hummed vivaciously; she gave the short bow of an equal, a bold move in that she had not been crowned yet. Bog suppressed a shiver and thought for a moment she seemed too big for the room in which she stood. As though he should take a step back to remove himself from her space. He saw the kind of Queen she could be. 

He bowed in return, one of equal depth, a brief acknowledgment of her status and power.   
"Yer Majesty." He responded in kind.


	4. Dusk til Dawn

Marianne sat quietly outside her father's study, swinging her feet and trying to push down the guilty feeling that she'd done something wrong. She hadn't meant to hurt anyone, really she hadn't. But those, those boys-! They had been tormenting a little elf girl from the village and Marianne had just been so furious! 

Her father's study door swung open gently. Marianne's feet stopped swinging and she forced herself to go in. Inside, her usually smiling father looked grim.

"Papa-" she rushed to explain, feeling guilty all over again.

"Marianne." She bit her tongue to stop the flurry of words that wanted to rush out and fill the disappointed silence. It hung oppressive and heavy on her shoulders. She studied her feet and felt tears threaten to spill over.

Finally, Dagda sighed. "What am I going to do with you?" He murmured wearily, rubbing at his beard. Marianne took a deep, shuddering breath.

"Now child," he told her sternly, standing behind his desk. "It is your duty as crown princess to stand tall and defend your decisions. Look at me."

She shifted for a moment, feet planted firmly, like she'd seen her father do countless times, shoulders back and willed her eyes to open and not to cry when she looked at her father. He waited patiently for her to collect herself.

What she found when she steeled herself to look at her father surprised her. Dagda's eyes twinkled back at her merrily, though his face was still a firm mask of disapproval. 

"Princess Marianne," he intoned solemnly, "what you have done is very serious. You have misused your Talents against another fae. What have you to say for yourself?"

She firmed her jaw and reached inside herself to find her resolve. "Those boys were picking on a little girl." She responded and was proud of how even her voice came out. Dagda nodded calmly. 

"But," He pointed out, "she was just an elf girl. You attacked two sons of the high fae with your Talent."

"And?!" She cried, forgetting her earlier guilt. "That girl was made no less a living being for all that she was an elf! She was no less deserving of justice or help! She was just a little girl!"

Instead of being angry, or arguing with her as Marianne had seen members of the Council do before, her father smiled a her. A small, proud smile.

"That she was." He said quietly. "I'm very proud of what you sought to accomplish my dear. You will be every bit the Queen your mother believed you could be." He walked around the desk to wrap his fierce little daughter in a tight hug. "But you understand that you still must be punished, yes?" She nodded shakily against his chest, a few tears finally falling. "Very well child, I expect a formal apology to the parents of the boys you injured, as well as a twenty page essay on thr rules of decorum." Marianne only nodded again, pushing her face against his chest a little more before letting go.

She took a deep breath and found that same fiery determination inside of herself again. "Yes, father." 

He nodded his dismissal, and watched her turn to leave. As her hand met the doorknob, her father's voice stopped her. 

"And Marianne?" When she turned to look at him he smiled once more, "Report to the training yards at dawn. The master at arms will begin your instruction in defense in the morning." 

Marianne broke into a beaming smile. "Yes father!" She turned and raced away, giggling jubilantly.   
.....

Marianne woke feeling warm, the memory of her father's proud eyes and gentle advice filling her with the fire she'd briefly forgotten. She rose to gaze out the window; it was raining outside, though the sky above were lightening as the sun rose. It seemed to bode well, and she took it as a good omen. 

She was in the bathroom readying herself for the day when she realized she was crying.   
.......

Bog lay awake in his unfamiliar, entirely too soft bed, staring out the window of the chambers he'd been given. He had been watching the sky when without warning it began to pour, as though the stars themselves were crying.


End file.
